


two and a half rotations

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, M/M, Seungchuchu Week, Time and space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 23:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11046732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Seunggil gets drunk and accidentally makes out with a stranger, who takes him back to his hotel. They make a deal.---“Well,” Phichit drawls, picking at his nails in a way that is effortlessly casual, “You do know that you were my first kiss after four years, right? And let me tell you, it was terrible. I understand that I might be slightly out of practice, but was it really necessary to pass out on me?”“I was inebriated,” Seunggil snaps.“Right. So- my payment.” Phichit makes a lazy gesture with his fingers before touching them to his mouth. “A kiss. No pressure, really, just be sober and conscious this time. One for the road.”





	two and a half rotations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avioxe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioxe/gifts).



> unintentional play on the time prompt by submitting this like half a week late lol  
> some jargon in here- a sola is a year and a rotary is a day, my worldbuilding skills are shoddy at best  
> for felix, who i care about very very much. i hope you like this!

Seunggil wants to believe he’s lost.

He knows he’s not, though. The device strapped to his wrist has recorded every twist and turn he’s taken, a map of his travels perfectly recorded in 2-D. But he chooses to ignore this fact; he grips tighter onto the commute pole and pretends that he’s on an adventure, that he wouldn’t get sucked right back in tomorrow.

(Maybe he won’t.)

He checks his armscreen. He’s currently crammed on one of the shuttles on route 12, the air of overprivilege clinging onto him like a disease. He avoids eye contact with anyone else. He hasn’t been keeping track of how many stations have passed by (again: trying to get lost), just that the buildings outside have lost their gleam and that the landscape’s gone dark and grimy. _Good enough_.

He steps off the shuttle and follows the tide toward the exit, spilling into the city. It’s one of the suburbs of Almavivo, tucked along the side of the capital like a quiet satellite. Only here, with vehicles going at all altitudes and surrounded by the unfamiliar, does his heart start to pound. He pushes logic aside, steps into the lane marked for pedestrians, and heads for the central plaza.

Seunggil’s pockets have vaguely a hundred or so kunipers, so he can stay the night. He buys a crepe from a nearby vendor and bites into it, pulling a face. (Of course it has vegetables.) The food tastes cheap, low-quality and limp, but it’s somehow less artificial than the usual food he has in the capital.

He continues walking, scanning the shops along the street before catching sight of a bar, the _Ombra_. He knew from the beginning, although perhaps subconsciously, that he would end up in one of these  by the start of the night. He steps inside the revolving door, flashes his armscreen, and the security guard grins like a shark and lets him in.

\---

Seunggil rolls a kuniper between his fingers, staring critically at the concoction placed on the table before him. It smells like fruit, with something darker underneath it. When he takes a sip, it burns down his throat.

But he doesn’t cough. He swallows it down and imagines it eating holes in his stomach like acid, tearing through the strings of his mind until it’s something that doesn’t function, a vestigial organ for a creature that no longer needs it.

He hands over another kuniper after he’s done, and then another. His head swims. He’s vaguely aware that _this_ \- now, he’s in danger. Without his mind, he’s nothing. He could get robbed and he might not even register it. (But Otabek’s gone now, his last tether to whatever might have made him care.)

Countless shots later, he slides off his stool and joins the gyrating crowd, limbs heavy and loose. The world tilts a couple degrees off axis, and he slides with it, the music loud and asymmetric and making Almavivo turn fifty percent faster.

He feels so alone. He’s always alone, but here, he shouldn’t be, standing in a crowd of hundreds with people pressed into him on all sides. But they’re just background, paint on a canvas, and it terrifies him, standing there all by himself.

He stumbles, and he lands onto someone. They’re warm and soft. Desperately real, and desperately there. Seunggil latches onto them like a drunk two-armed glorpthan, wanting to hold on to them until they’re the same person, until they can’t be separated.

They turn around, and they’re definitely not from Almavivo, their skin too dark and their facial structure different. But even in the shadows they’re beautiful, so Seunggil presses his mouth to theirs. He feels them laugh lightly into his mouth before kissing him back, and then the ground finally slips out from under his feet and everything goes black.

\---

Seunggil wakes up with a mouth full of cotton.

His head hurts. It’s the kind of headache that feels like there’s a vice squeezing his skull from both sides, a crushed metal contraption averse to light. But he forces his eyes open, heavy from exhaustion, and- oh, fuck.

That’s not his room. That’s _definitely_ not his room. For one, the walls are covered with generic pop-art rather than mechanical diagrams, and two, it’s too small.

Seunggil sighs and takes a deep breath, gingerly sliding off the bed and onto the floor. All of his clothes are on. That’s a good sign, and his armscreen is still strapped onto his wrist. He touches the bed, apprehensive about his hand finding- _fluids_ , of some sort, but no, the bed is dry. At least doesn’t have to worry about contending with hybrid alien babies by the end of the next sola…

His armscreen is still strapped firmly around his wrist, and when he checks his pockets, he’s still got several kunipers left. He reluctantly admits to himself that he got lucky, that he stumbled onto somebody kind last night. He opens up his armscreen and checks the history, resigning himself to heading back.

And then the door opens.

Seunggil blinks owlishly at the alien that walks in. There’s a brilliant smile on his face that starkly contrasts Seunggil’s mood, and he’s holding a tray of food and two glasses of water. He doesn’t seem to be from this sector of the galaxy; Seunggil doesn’t recognize this particular combination of skin tone and body structure.

“Hi,” the guy says, setting the tray down. “I got- um, I don’t know what this is, I’m guessing it’s- cereal?” The translating strap he’s got around his wrists give his words a slightly metallic tone, although it’s still a bright voice, a pretty voice. “And uh- bread?”

“I think that’s a pancake,” Seunggil says shortly, because even in his hungover state he’s still a pedantic, apparently. He peels one of the square cakes off of the tray and takes a bite, chewing. It tastes like ashes. And regret.

“Good to know,” the guy says. “I’m Phichit. And I swear I didn’t like. Try to molest you last night or anything. You were really drunk, so I don’t know how much you remember…”

Seunggil racks his brains. The memories are hazy and broken, a blurry alcoholic mosaic, but he’s certain of one thing. “I kissed you.”

“That you did.”

“And you kissed me back.”

Phichit’s eyes twinkle. “That I did.”

“I’m sorry,” Seunggil says, because although he’s never been good at apologizing, he figures he owes Phichit at least this much.

“Don’t be,” Phichit promises. “It’s a bar. That kind of shit’s supposed to happen. And I haven’t kissed anyone in the past four solas because I only really interact with four people on a daily basis, and while they are, objectively, very attractive, they’re also very much taken. By each other. I’m like the permanent fifth wheel.”

Seunggil gives a curt nod, cramming his mouth full of pancake while he digests this information. He’s deduced that he’s in some kind of travel habitation, but he’s not certain that he wants to know why Phichit is here. Or why he only interacts with four people per rotary. (Which is still three more than Seunggil usually interacts with).

They’re just two strangers from opposite ends of the galaxy who kissed and now are eating breakfast together. Seunggil vaguely notes that Phichit is the kind of person that experiments with all the little packets of syrup and butter provided by the trav-hab. It’s kind of endearing, if anything about a stranger can be endearing.

Seunggil feels awkward. He’s not sure if he should just shove a couple kunipers into Phichit’s hand for the trouble and leave, or if he’s supposed to stay and make small talk. He’s never had a one night stand- and even if he had, he’s pretty sure that the rules wouldn’t even apply here, given that he passed out before anything could actually happen.

Phichit doesn’t seem to realize the tension and continues spearing various syrup-coated bites, making little hums of content when he finds a particularly nice combination. He inadvertently solves Seunggil’s problem when he asks, “So, what’s your story?”

“My… story?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s got one, right? What’s yours?”

Seunggil shrugs. “I just wanted to get drunk.” It’s only a sliver of the full truth, but Phichit doesn’t need to know that. It seems like he already does, though, the way he looks at Seunggil likes he’s got him all figured out. “What about you?”

“I’m here on business,” Phichit says. “I’m- well, I guess you could say I’m an intergalactic merchant.”

Seunggil narrows his eyes. He’s been brought up in the field of politics and has solas worth of experience of half-lies and inverted truths. _Intergalactic merchant_ might be code for drug dealer. Space pirate. Assassin. He isn’t certain.

What he is certain of is this: Phichit is the perfect person to have ran into, lying or not. “Business,” he says, rolling the word in his mouth. “And what does that entail.”

“I’ve got some crap I’ve got to sell,” Phichit says. “Well- not really _my_ crap. But you get the idea.”

Seunggil nods. “I do. And coincidentally, um.” He’s not one to believe in signs, nor vocalized pauses, but this seems like a signal from the universe.

“I need to- would you be interested in making a deal?”

Phichit grins like a shark. “I’m listening.”

“There’s a starship parked in the lot a few lanes from where I live,” Seunggil says. “It’s not mine. But- that’s not the point here.”

He hesitates, realizing that he’s admitting his (decidedly illegal) plans to someone he’s literally known for half a rotation, most of which when he was passed out, but there’s something about Phichit that makes him careless.

And Phichit doesn’t look like he’s going to report Seunggil, anyway, not with the way his eyes light up like Seunggil had just said that he’s got a handful of stardust that Phichit can take.

“Go on.”

Seunggil takes a deep breath. “I need to leave Almavivo as soon as possible. And I need your help to do it.”

He sits back and waits for Phichit to question him. The thing is, Seunggil isn’t really holding back information because it’s _illegal_ \- no, he’s embarrassed the way sixth solas are embarrassed about having a crush on their upperclassman. He doesn’t want to explain it unless he actually has to.

Miraculously, Phichit doesn’t press. “I’m leaving in two and a half rotaries and have my own agenda, but sure, I’ll help you,” he says, voice thick with _catch_. He leans forward, a gleam in his eye. “But you said this was a deal. So- what do I get?”

Seunggil shifts uncomfortably. “One hundred kunipers.”

A melodramatic sigh. “Money’s boring.”

“What?” Seunggil stutters. Shit- well- it’s not like he’s got anything _better_ to offer, except maybe a few metal automatons, but Phichit probably wouldn’t need that either- fuck, what if Phichit wants a _blowjob_ or something that requires skin-to-skin contact?

(Then again, Seunggil did practically drunkenly molest him last night, so that’s unfortunately rather fair.)

“Well,” Phichit drawls, picking at his nails in a way that is effortlessly casual, “You do know that you were my first kiss after four solas, right? And let me tell you, it was terrible. I understand that I might be _slightly_ out of practice, but was it really necessary to pass out on me?”

“I was inebriated,” Seunggil snaps.

“Right. So- my payment.” Phichit makes a lazy gesture with his fingers before touching them to his mouth. “A kiss. No pressure, really, just be sober and conscious this time. One for the road.”  

“Fine,” Seunggil says. _Easy_.

“Cool,” Phichit says, brushing syrup off his tunic and only succeeding in smearing it in further. He offers a hand to Seunggil, who sighs and takes it, trying to ignore the sticky transaction of strawberry and tangerine jellies. “Where to first?”

Seunggil’s got the written down somewhere, a crumpled piece of paper in the waste, because it was unrealistic with his street skills. It takes hazy shape in his mind: sell off his automatons, buy supplies with the money for a few months of living alone in space, steal a starship and launch off.

“My place. There’s some shit I need to get.”

\---

“You’re really good at getting lost,” Phichit comments, like it would _kill_ him to sound actually sarcastic for once.

“I try,” Seunggil says, monotone.

This might be their fifth route change by now. Seunggil’s managed to reduce the distance travelled by fifty percent, but it’s still at least an hour’s worth of commute. Seunggil’s perfectly aware of how rusty his street skills are, an alien on his own home planet. Phichit’s disgustingly nice, though, and hasn’t mocked him for it once.

Right now, they’re crammed together on one of the shuttles, standing room only. The back seats are taken by a bunch of obnoxious tourist aliens that have no concept of _space_.

Seunggil kind of wants to murder them but keeps a bland look of indifference on his face. He doesn’t want to make anyone cry; that’d be inconvenient and extend his and Phichit’s travel time.

Phichit hums. “You’re so different when you’re sober.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Phichit smiles apologetically and makes a vague hand gesture. Seunggil doesn’t understand it until- oh, he’s shrunk in on himself. Despite how crowded the commute is, he’s not touching anyone. There’s at least three inches of space between him and Phichit.

“I’m generally averse to physical contact,” Seunggil mutters.

“ _Generally_ ,” Phichit says, and his face is so amused that Seunggil has to look away. “Does it genuinely make you uncomfortable?”

“No. I just don’t see the point of it.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I did this?”

“I- what the fuck are you doing,” Seunggil says, because Phichit’s suddenly got his arms wrapped around him from across the pole. The tourist aliens have stopped discussing their travel plans and are boggling them like _they’re_ the attraction here.

“I’m giving you a hug,” Phichit explains.

“Yeah- I understand _that_ , but what the fuck for?”

“You’re very huggable.”

Phichit releases him after another second, and Seunggil turns around, blushing and muttering something about _weird foreign customs_. Phichit seems completely unperturbed, but there’s a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

They spill into the station and sprint to the correct terminal, and Phichit wraps his fingers around Seunggil’s wrist and pulls him forward onto the next shuttle. Seunggil allows himself to be yanked along.

He looks up, and Phichit is staring at the shuttle with the same intense gaze as he’d been looking at all the previous ones. While Seunggil thoroughly doesn’t believe that Phichit’s _innocent_ or anything completely stupid like that, the kind of look he’s giving the shuttle is something akin to childish wonder, as if he’s never seen anything like it before.

It’s not conspicuous. Not like the tourist aliens that had come beforehand, so obvious that they were here for something new.

No- the thing with Phichit is that he can turn something as simple as commute-hopping into an adventure. Over the course of thirty minutes, they’ve fallen into a simple camaraderie (which is why Seunggil didn’t stick an electric rod through Phichit when he’d embraced him.) It’s like they’re partners in crime, even though they haven’t known each other very long.

Or maybe it’s precisely because they’ve got a certain expiration date. With Phichit, Seunggil knows that whatever they have right now- it’ll end in two rotaries and a kiss. There’s safety in the fact that they are inevitably ephemeral.

\---

“Thank _god_ ,” Phichit groans, getting out of the shuttle. “That guy had his _organs_ in my back the _entire time_ , do you know how _uncomfortable_ that was-”

Seunggil snickers, glad that he’d been out of the way of that one alien with the five-foot long genitalia.

“Don’t _laugh_ ,” Phichit grumbles, “you have _no idea-_ I’ve been traumatized for life _-_ ”

“If you’ve still got the words _traumatized for life_ in you, I’m pretty sure that you’ll be fine,” Seunggil says shortly, pushing open the door of the terminal and stepping out into the sunlight.

He’d miscalculated the time it’d take to get here, because math unfortunately doesn’t account for things like pissy aliens demanding sippy cups for children and brokenhearted attendants sobbing their breakup stories out at the _ticket vendor_.

It’s middle of the rotary by now, Almavivo’s star hanging bright in the sky. Seunggil takes a few steps forward before realizing that Phichit hadn’t followed. “Hey-” Seunggil says, stopping shortly.

Phichit’s jaw is slack. “You- you _live here_?”

“Yeah,” Seunggil says quietly. He knows exactly what it looks like, now that he’s seeing it through Phichit’s eyes.

The edifices around him rise up tall and metal and unforgiving, catching the distant rays of starlight and reflecting them off a million jeweled panels that crisscross each other as they rise into the atmosphere. Five-star restaurants and shops line the streets like wrapping paper, limited-edition vehicles zipping across the street.

(It’s a prison.)

Seunggil hasn’t told Phichit that this is the first time that Seunggil’s ever even _left_ the capital. His entire life had been contained in a gleaming two-mile square. Fists clenching by his sides, he wonders if it was a good idea to bring Phichit here, laying him out bare to be judged-

“I get why you’d need a break from all this.”

“What?” Seunggil says, stupidly.

Phichit shrugs. “I launched myself into fucking _space_ to escape the living population. _You_ , on the other hand, travelled a couple miles and got drunk.”

His words strike a nerve. “Like I had any other option.”

Phichit takes a step back, eyes wide.

“Why do you think I asked you for help in the first place,” Seunggil mutters, “if I’d been perfectly capable of doing everything on my own.”

“I’m sorry,” Phichit says cautiously.

“Don’t be,” Seunggil snaps, before realizing how stupid that sounded. “Just- I’m not the best with social interaction, okay. I don’t know how you’ve put up with me so far. I was going to mess up sooner or later.”

“Hey,” Phichit says gently, touching his arm. “I’ve been removed from the living for four solas. I’m kind of rusty, too. So please forgive me if I say something stupid.”

Seunggil brushes his hair back, regretting his outburst. (Phichit seems like a magnifier for his emotions. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.) “Whatever,” he allows, flippant, and Phichit’s grin breaks wider than the stars, although for the first time, he looks hesitant. As if he hasn’t got Seunggil all mapped out in his head.

“Okay,” Phichit says, voice the verbal equivalent of getting his footing back on even ground. “Where to next?”

Seunggil squints at the road. He recognizes this particular shopfront; he and Otabek used to go out and eat there all the time, an eclectic blend of foods from all across the galaxy.

“We’ve got a couple lanes to my dorm,” Seunggil says. “We need to get in and out in under half an hour. It’s possible that we might run into some trouble; my plans for leaving were- delayed.” He looks away, fingers twitching.

“I see,” Phichit says, smiling knowingly. “Are you just winging it right now?”

“I have a _plan_ ,” Seunggil says stiffly, and glares when Phichit touches a hand to his mouth and dramatically mimes passing out. “There were a couple of deviations.”

Phichit rolls his eyes. “You’re still a step ahead of me. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything but impromptu. Kind of how I ended up in jail three times in three different sectors.”

Seunggil regrets everything.

“It’s also how I got _out_ of jail three times in three different sectors, though,” Phichit continues. “You’re in good hands.”

Seunggil must still look suspicious, because Phichit extends his hands and says, “Come on, lead the way. I’ve no idea where we are.”

Seunggil nods, jolting himself out of his stupor, and starts heading down the block. Phichit snaps an accessory gadget off his armscreen and holds them up to the buildings. “I run a blog,” he explains. “It’s just random shit. I have like, two followers.”

Seunggil nods, although the pride in Phichit’s voice suggests that it’s more than _random shit_ to him. He turns the final lane, taking hold of Phichit’s wrist so he doesn’t end up getting hit by a car, and approaches the building that contains his dorm.

The building is squatter than the others around it, and Seunggil discards any thought of what Phichit might think of his lifestyle and squints up at the second floor. He’s done this before.

Before, when the academy just got too suffocating, when the vines of politics and social hierarchy got too constricting, he and Otabek would climb out the window, sometimes to sit on the roof, other times to just wind their way around the city. Not in a romantic way, though.

They were always just two people tired of being stuck in the same place.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you,” Phichit says, two precarious footholds behind. “I know an escapist when I see one.”

“I’m not an escapist,” Seunggil says, which comes out less collected than he would like considering he’s holding on for dear life on the metal banister.

“Right, you just think front doors are for losers,” Phichit agrees, somehow managing to overtake Seunggil on his own designated route and wriggling into the window first.

“We don’t have much time,” Seunggil warns again. “People have probably noticed the absence at this point-”

“Shh,” Phichit says, “I’m trying to comprehend how much of a genius you actually are.”

Seunggil looks down at his feet. The room is split perfectly down the middle, although by no dividing line.

On one side there are starcharts, brass telescope, and astronomy textbooks, universe trivia tacked neatly along the wall. On the other side are gadgets, tools, various crumpled blueprints, and metallic automatons of all shapes and size.

One side is emptier than the other, although there’s still plenty enough left that it’s hard to tell. But Seunggil can. The posterboard has been stripped bare, at least, and all the things that are the most important to Otabek are gone. These stars- the ones that are left over, scattered with dust in the room- this is not where Otabek is.

“It’s not _all_ mine,” Seunggil says shortly, hating the way the words slice through his ribcage. “Just this side.”

He gestures over to the side with the various mechanisms and other metallic baubles. He grabs a knapsack and begins to empty a shelf of its contents, carefully placing them in the bag.

Phichit stands like he’s unsure if he should help or not, but thinks better of it and goes to stand over at the other side of the room, tracing the maps on the wall.

“Is this- whose is this?” He asks, finally.

“I had a roommate,” Seunggil says. “Otabek.”

He can see Phichit process the past tense, the hard edge to his voice. “Otabek,” he muses. “Really.” He pauses, taking a closer glance at Seunggil’s face. “You look- sad.”

“What’s it to you,” Seunggil snaps, voice brittle. “There’s no time to explain right now unless you want to get caught by the authorities, and there are some prisons here that even _you_ can’t break out of.”

“Fair enough,” Phichit acquises.

Seunggil sighs, angrily shoving another automaton into his knapsack, although he can’t really take out his frustration because he’s too scared he might damage something. “All you have to know is that he didn’t break my heart.”

“Okay.”

Phichit frowns at something on the walls before leaning over and gingerly peeling it off. Seunggil would reprimand him, but he suddenly has the urge to _run_ , shoving the final automaton into his knapsack before zipping it closed and throwing his leg out the window. Phichit follows soon afterwards.

There’s probably no one following them- just, the room made Seunggil feel like there were needles under his skin, the instinct of flight bubbling right under the surface. Still, he doesn’t pause until he’s well out of range of the academy, in a little shadowy juncture at the edge of the main area.

Phichit’s two feet behind him, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead.

“I didn’t know you were an engineer,” Phichit says.

Seunggil shrugs. “I’m at the most prestigious academy in the world. I’ll pick things up, even if I’m supposed to be specializing in another field.”

“Yeah- but like, your stuff was _insane_.”

Seunggil snorts. The things he has in his knapsack right now are finished products, and even then, they weren’t too complicated, compared to the things he could have made if he was allowed to take those kinds of classes. Phichit doesn’t know what the halfway points looked like, nor the faulty beginning diagrams.

“Whatever,” Seunggil mumbles, looking away. He clutches the sack closer to his body, even though it’s not like Phichit’s going to steal it or anything.

“Take the fucking compliment,” Phichit grins. “And hey- what do you mean, you were specializing in a different field? Because like- if you think you’re not good at this or something-”

Seunggil’s fists clench, a million insults rising to the tip of his tongue. _Says you, not all of us can just launch ourselves into the atmosphere_ \- but that’s not fair to Phichit.

So he swallows down the rawness of his words and says shortly, “My father’s in the inner government tier of Almavivo. I’m- expected to follow his footsteps.”

That’s what his entire life has revolved around. Bending himself to meld to the world of politics, like making circles out of squares. He hates how much _interaction_ it requires- how his cold front could break any moment, how he could manipulate and get manipulated right back- but he’s somehow managed to shove his way to at least the top fifth percentile.

Engineering, though- that felt different. That felt easy as breathing. He liked the way everything fit together, how the laws of physics and matter responded to his will. But that was never the point in his school.

“That’s so-” Phichit pauses, considering, then shuts up. “That’s why you’re leaving. Along with whatever’s going on with Otabek.”

Seunggil knows that his reason for leaving is a tangled mess, but those two sentences sum it up pretty well. “Yeah.”

Phichit hums before taking a look at his chronometer. “We should start heading back,” he says. “I mean, I don’t know if the words _rush hour_ mean anything on this planet, but-”

“Shit,” Seunggil says, staring at his own armscreen. The numbers blare a later time than he would have liked.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, words foreign-tasting. He doesn’t really apologize, but this entire scenario with Phichit has been exceptional in every other regard, so he isn’t that surprised.

“I’m wasting your time.” _That must be annoying_.

Phichit flaps a flippant hand at him. “You’re fine,” he says. “Believe it or not, this is actually the most fun I’ve had in awhile.”

“What the hell is your definition of fun,” Seunggil grumbles. “Are you measuring it to the same standards as that sub-par kiss, because in that case-”

“I know what fun is. I don’t need to compare that to anything,” Phichit says, which leaves Seunggil at loss for a retort. (A dangerous situation to be in, considering he’s been immersed in space politics his entire life.) “Besides, my crewmates know I don’t need three rotaries on this planet. They just wanted me to meet people and stuff. And to buy them souvenirs, probably.”

“Souvenirs.” Seunggil squints.

“Yeah, Guang-Hong- that’s one of them, by the way- he’s a petty little shit that knows how to get what he wants. The worst part is that he’s so adorable you can’t say no.”

“Oh.”

That’s the first time Phichit has mentioned any _names_ and forced Seunggil to confront that Phichit has roles outside of just a partner with an expiration date.

“Fifth wheel perks,” Phichit says, laughing dryly. “Mandatory reprieves from all the PDA. It’s located on page seventeen in the _best friends_ handbook.”

Phichit’s voice contains a hint of bitterness that Seunggil recognizes all too well- it’s a constant seasoning to his own words, as well. “If I tell you about Otabek,” he says slowly, “Will you tell me what you really do?”

“I told you. I’m a merchant.”

“Yeah, fuck no,” Seunggil says, which startles a laugh out of Phichit. “I’ve been in politics since I was in the _womb_. I’ll eat my entire ass if you’re actually a merchant.”

“Damn,” Phichit whistles, “Now I kinda wish that were the truth.”

“I’m going to ignore that. But deal or no deal?”

“Deal,” Phichit says. His face grows dark. “Although- if you report me, I’ll badmouth you on the net. Good luck buying a fairly-priced dress shirt ever again.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious.”

“And I hope you never find out.” Then, he drops the threatening facade and resumes his normal cheery expression. “I’m fricking starving. We can talk _after_ I’ve eaten another one of your planet’s weird rectangular foods.”

Seunggil procures a nutrient bar from his pocket, trying to ignore the fact it’s shaped like a square. Phichit badly stifles his laughter. “This should tide you over until we get back.”

“Thanks,” Phichit says, through a mouthful of food. “You got any restaurant recommendations?”

“Can you stop acting like a tourist?”

“I _am_ basically a tourist, though, albeit of dubious legality,” Phichit says, letting the insult roll off of him like water. “Plus, your square foods are delicious.”

“Point,” Seunggil acknowledges.

“I think I’ve got a couple spare kunipers,” Phichit says, pulling a few rusty coins out of his pockets. “I can buy you dinner.”

“Three kunipers-”

“Four.”

“ _Four_ kunipers will get you half a glorpthan’s buttcheek on a stick,” Seunggil snaps. “You’re not buying me anything.”

“Aw, you’re such a courteous date,” Phichit jokes, and Seunggil squashes down a smirk and pulls up the commute map on his armscreen. Something blooms in him, heavy and unsure, but analyzing it further seems like a terrible idea.

\---

“This is fucking amazing,” Phichit says. He’d spent the majority of the meal taking pictures of the food, captioning them with various geometric puns. Seunggil sighs.

“You could probably eat more if you weren’t so preoccupied with that,” Seunggil says, waving a little at the armscreen.

“Consider it an endearing foreign idiosyncrasy at let me live,” Phichit pouts, snapping another picture. Seunggil rolls his eyes, deciding he’s too worn-out to fight with the use of the word _endearing_ , and sticks another bite into his mouth.

They’re eating at a little hole-in-the-wall shop that had caught Phichit’s attention with its quaint neon lights and its sign, _Anastasis_. It’s later than Seunggil would have liked (one, because he’s not used to having his schedule disturbed, and two, it’s a signifier that maybe all that shuttle-hopping wasn’t as well planned out as he’d thought). Phichit had charmed the waiter into giving him at least twenty free samples and is now distractedly making his way through the actual meal.

Seunggil spent the first five minutes picking out the vegetables and glaring at Phichit like _judge me, I dare you_. Phichit hasn’t said anything, but that’s probably less due to terror and more the fact that Phichit doesn’t really care what anyone else does.

“You don’t even understand,” Phichit says, pointing his spoon at Seunggil. “I’ve been living off of nutrition tablets and dried blocks of vaguely edible dust for months. This could literally be Almaen shit, and I probably wouldn’t even notice.”

Seunggil quirks a brow. “What are you, some kind of alien?”

Phichit laughs. “Aren’t we all, though? I mean, intergalactic travel has been a viable option for the past decade.”

“I guess…” He doesn’t really understand why his chest feels constricted all of a second, his own joke losing its humor. “That’s barely a blip in the universe, though. Hence, why words such as _alien_ still retain their original connotation.”

“You’re really smart, you know that?” Phichit says, and Seunggil flinches. It’s never a compliment. “I just- you remind me of my friend.”

Seunggil shrugs uncomfortably. “I picked up most of my astronomical trivia from Otabek. Stars aren’t really my thing.” He hesitates, not sure why he just carved out a path to the conversation he’d hoped to avoid, but Phichit doesn’t pounce. Not immediately, anyway.

“Otabek sounds cool,” Phichit says. “You’re like, barely putting up with me. What kind of awesome must _he_ be if you actually like him?”

Seunggil mumbles, “I’m not- I don’t mind you.”

“I’m honored.”

“Fuck off,” Seunggil snaps, and Phichit giggles. “Compliments- they’re not my thing.” He shoves a spoonful of food in his mouth. There were a few stray vegetables that had evaded his attention, and Seunggil pulls a face. “Anyway. Otabek was just- Otabek.”

“You look _so_ uncomfortable,” Phichit says.

Seunggil glares. “Yeah, well-”

“So, you said that you’d tell me about Otabek if I told you what I actually did, right?” Phichit says.

“A fairly accurate representation of our terms.”

“Yeah- well, I’m a space pirate.”

Seunggil nearly coughs out his carbohydrates. He didn’t expect Phichit to say it so- _baldly._ “What.”

“I mean- it’s more accidental than anything? My friend’s boyfriend accidentally stole a starship-”

“How the fuck does one _accidentally_ steal a starship?”

“Don’t ask me. I have no idea either. We’re not really professional- sometimes we raid cargo ships if necessary, but most of the time we’re just- floating around. Taking sides in intergalactic political matters if we deem it important. We somehow wound up under the protection of the crown prince of Prix, but that doesn’t really apply to all the other galaxies…”

Seunggil doesn’t really know what the appropriate reaction is, so he just dips his head.

“You’re not going to report me,” Phichit says. Not a demand, not a question- an observation. A statement of fact.

“You made it sound more illegal than it actually was,” Seunggil grumbles. “That’s _it_?”

“What- did you expect me to be an assassin?” Phichit’s laughing at this point, thoroughly amused by Seunggil’s distaste. “An intergalactic prostitute? What?”

Seunggil rolls his eyes. “Prostitution isn’t illegal in most galaxies… it’d be a good strategy to familiarize yourself with the legal code. More loopholes to work with.”

“Your political upbringing is showing,” Phichit teases. Fear flashes across his face, like he’s scared that he’s rubbing salt in open wounds, but Seunggil’s mouth quirks up.

“Anyway, I’ve told you _my_ dubious background,” Phichit says. “So- tell me. What are you doing that requires _this_?” He gestures to the knapsack leaning against one of the rickety table legs, crammed with Seunggil’s odds and ends.

Seunggil rolls his words carefully, like folding a wonton. He doesn’t want to ramble; the habit of getting what needed to be said in under twenty words or so has been instilled in him since birth. “Otabek was my roommate,” he says, then pauses.

 _Roommate_ isn’t- wasn’t- the right word. They’d known each other since they were ten or so, reluctant nebulas dragged into the political galaxy. Seunggil had gravitated toward him because Otabek seemed tolerable, meaning that he knew when the fuck to _shut up_.

They were more a deal than a friendship at first, two people hanging onto each other like a miniature life boat in a sea of stupidity. And maybe the reason they were close was due to the fact they knew each other so long. That Otabek hadn’t gotten to go to astronomy school and Seunggil had been forced to keep his inventions under wraps.

But now Seunggil hated that he wasn’t here…

“He disappeared three rotaries ago,” Seunggil says, finally. “He left behind a map of the Advent galaxy and a photo of some kid with blonde hair. I need to find him.”

To be honest, as enigmatic as Otabek made himself out to be, Seunggil had at least some inkling that _some_ kind of crap like this was going to happen. Otabek had been heading out to the roof more often, bags under his eyes from lack of sleep.

Seunggil joined him at times, when he was sick of poring over diagrams, padding out in his sleep tunic and playing with the strings of the fraying hems. _Go to sleep, idiot_ , _we have a test tomorrow_ , and Otabek would turn around from his telescope with his impassive face and tell him there was caffeinated pie in the fridge if he wanted some.

(Seunggil loved caffeinated pie, but that was beside the point.)

And last week, he’d said, unexpectedly, “We don’t have to take the test. You could become a mechanic.”

Seunggil doesn’t even remember what he’d said after that, something along the lines of _I’m too tired for this_ or _did Chris spill vodka in the pie again_ , but he should have known. Otabek never said anything he didn’t mean.

“I’ll help you find him,” Phichit says softly, stirring his dessert. Square pie, cream pooling around the edges. “He sounds important to you.”

Seunggil grits his teeth. He hates that _someone_ is important to him. That there’s organic matter in his metaphysical universe, painfully fickle and mobile. “That’s the deal,” Seunggil says. _And you get a kiss in return. You need to learn how to bargain better._

Phichit polishes off the rest of his pie and scrapes his plate off in the waste chute, setting the tray down on the washing belt. Seunggil follows suit.

The waiter comes over, impossibly cheery, and Seunggil gives him a couple extra kunipers as tip just because he wants the waiter to direct the smile somewhere else. It’s _blinding_. But the waiter does no such thing, just sunnily smiles harder and seems on the verge of hugging Seunggil as he hightails (as apathetically as possible) out of the restaurant.

Phichit is already standing in the lot, hands in his pockets and his tunic blowing in the breeze. He’s got his head tipped up toward the sky, and Seunggil says, “What.”

“I’m just- looking,” Phichit says wistfully.

“Aren’t you surrounded by space every rotary?”

“It kinda looks different from down here,” Phichit argues, and Seunggil shrugs.

Seunggil squints. He doesn’t see any beauty in it; whenever he and Otabek went up toward the rooftops to go stargaze, Seunggil hadn’t really known why Otabek had a passion for it. He’d mechanically memorized the positions of stars and planets and the kinds of celestial objects that hung like marbles in the sky, but it never really meant anything to him.

If Phichit and Otabek met, they might be friends.

Phichit yawns. “You’re not drunk, right?”

“Am I attempting to drape myself all over you and half-eat your face?”

“I think we’re good there, so no. Anyway, since you’re not going to be hungover tomorrow, make sure I don’t sleep in. I actually suck at mornings. Unless I’m getting pancakes for people that passed out. That’s like, the one exception.”

“I’m not a personal alarm,” Seunggil grumbles, but Phichit just smiles, impossibly bright, and starts heading over the plaza to where the trav-hab is. Seunggil follows suit and tries not to think that in two rotaries, Phichit is leaving too.

\---

Phichit wasn’t lying when he said he was bad at getting up in the mornings. Seunggil, after finding it physically impossible to remove the covers that Phichit has cocooned himself in, ends up shoving Phichit onto the floor, where the covers unroll like a dropped burrito.

“Thanks,” Phichit says, groaning and finally getting up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Here, take my sensory and order.”

“You better look presentable by the time I get back, or else this is the last we’ll see of each other,” Seunggil threatens, his voice mellow even to his own ears.

“Aye, captain, see ya soon,” Phichit says, sleepily hauling himself off the floor and straightening out the covers.

“Anything you want?”

“Squares,” Phichit says.

(Seunggil spends ten minutes looking for the most circular pieces of pancake possible, pissing off everyone else in the lobby.)

“Alright,” Phichit says, looking significantly more awake by the time Seunggil comes in, bearing his lopsided pancakes. (He’d grabbed the syrup packets too, and looks away when Phichit beams.) “So here’s the game plan: we pawn off our stuff and then buy the necessary crap at the commercial center. You’re kick-ass at debate, right?”

“Politics school, remember?”

“ _Fuck_ yeah. I assume you know how to bargain, then.”

Seunggil swallows down the jab he was going to make about _Phichit’s_ bargaining skills and instead folds up the pancake, eating it dry. Phichit looks disgusted.

“If I see you again, I’m gonna teach you how to eat that properly.”

“We’re not going to see each other again, though,” Seunggil says truthfully.

“Details,” Phichit says. “It’s too early in the morning to be that depressing. C’mon, finish mauling your pancake and then let’s go.”

\---

“I think there’s one two stations down,” Seunggil says. He and Phichit are looking idly scrolling through their armscreens, sitting on a stone bench in route blue, looking for a pawnshop. Although Phichit might actually be looking at memes. That’s also a dire possibility, since his mouth is pursed in an effort not to laugh.

“I’m looking, I _swear_ ,” Phichit protests, his fingers dashing in an obviously-practiced sequence before pulling up the maps. Seunggil rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, well, this one looks semi-okay,” Seunggil says. “There’s no mention of sex in the reviews, anyway…”

Phichit scoots over. “Oh yeah, those places are a riot. One time, on a different planet, one of the shopkeepers handed me a candy that turned out to be flavored protection.”

“What,” Seunggil says, deadpan. “How do you-”

“Translators don’t work on written languages, you know,” Phichit says. “And you gotta admit, condoms and candy look _kinda_ similar. Especially on your planet, where everything is shaped like a square.”

“Our condoms come in triangular packaging,” Seunggil says, immediately regretting his words when Phichit grins, mouthing, _any particular reason for that_?

The shop is cool when they enter, warmly lit by the rays of the sun. Phichit swings his knapsack off his shoulders and approaches the counter, the canvas flap of the bag gaping open. Metal chains glint inside.

Seunggil moves to the opposite end of the counter and bargains his automatons off fairly quickly, not forcing the price too much- he’d already calculated how many kunipers he needed beforehand. He pockets the paper cash and lingers over where Phichit is to see how he’s doing.

“Five hundred kunipers,” Phichit says, glaring. He’s got a necklace clenched in his hands, a silver thing with a dark red teardrop set in the center. Seunggil thinks him a pretty easygoing guy, but all his charisma has been sharpened to a blade, held at the shopkeeper’s throat.

But the shopkeeper is better than that, just eying Phichit coolly. “Four hundred.”

“Four-fifty.”

“Actually,” Seunggil interrupts in a bored tone of voice, two counters away, like he couldn’t help but _overhear_ . “The pendant is arzonite, which is located in the planet _Eros_ in the fourteenth sector of the Zorban Galaxy, located approximately two nebulas away. Due to its scarcity and reflective properties, the market for it has nearly doubled in the trade center, so really, you’d be _lucky_ -” and here, he glares at the shopkeeper with his most intimidating glare, “For _one-thousand_.”

Here, the shopkeeper is looking at Seunggil almost curiously. “What’s it to you?”

“I can’t stand those who are factually incompetent,” Seunggil says blithely, levelling his glare at Phichit, who hastily dons an offended expression. He ends up selling the arzonite for one thousand and two hundred kunipers, and he handles the rest okay, so Seunggil doesn’t jump in on him again.

“That was terrifying,” Phichit says, laughing.

Seunggil shrugs. “You don’t go through political training for twenty solas and walk out of it unscarred.”

“Still. _Terrifying_ ,” Phichit says, bemused. “You’ll have no problem at the trade center tomorrow…”

“It was clear you knew your stuff, too,” Seunggil says, because except for the arzonite, Phichit’s numbers had been stunningly calculated, considering that he generally drifts among the galaxies. “Did you conduct research beforehand?”

Phichit rolls his eyes. “I don’t have that kind of stamina. Guang-Hong did it. Or more accurately, Guang-Hong passed off the task to Leo, who was busy with his machinery, so _he_ tossed the file to Victor, but Victor is Victor so of course Yuuri ended up doing all of it. We made him imitation katsudon in apology.”

The name-drops go over his head, but Seunggil doesn’t mention it. “...Katsudon?”

“This dish from our home planet. You have _got_ to try it out.”

Seunggil rolls his eyes. “Some of us aren’t space pirates, you know.”

\---

If the capital is located in the heart of Almavivo, the commercial center is about as far away to the side as possible, next to the landing dock. Seunggil can see the glint of hundreds of starships and escape pods from where they’re positioned at the entrance of the center.

“I’ll bet five kunipers that half of those are illegal,” Phichit says.

Seunggil snorts. “I’m not betting on something that’s obviously the case.”

The commercial center is shaped like an enormous wheel, different spokes for different items. He and Phichit head to the convenience sector and take the giant bags that are being handed out for free near the entrance. Seunggil stands at the aisles, rooted to the spot; he’s got a file on his armscreen for everything he needs, but the place is _huge_.

Next to him, Phichit’s laughing. “Have you never been here before?”

Seunggil glares at him. “Do I _look_ like the kind of person who regularly goes shopping?”

Phichit grins and pulls his wrist, his hand warm around Seunggil’s arm. Seunggil looks down- strangely, although he’d _kissed_ this boy, it feels odd. But the moment is over and Phichit is messing with Seunggil’s armscreen, swiping up. “You’re so _practical_ ,” Phichit says, amused. “What, no triangle condoms?”

“Why would I need those?” Seunggil yelps.

“You know, given how you act while drunk-”

“I will fucking _murder you_ ,” Seunggil hisses, his hands shooting out to- he doesn’t know what- and Phichit cackles and moves out of the way before moving along the aisles with a practiced ease. It doesn’t surprise Seunggil that Phichit would be the type to not just _put up_ with shopping, but actually enjoy it.

He could probably walk up to the cashier and buy condoms without batting an eye, shape of the packaging be damned. _A kiss is not ample payment_.

“Alright,” Phichit says, voice suddenly businesslike. “I’ll drag you around this shop because you’re clearly incompetent at this basic life skill-”

“I could _do it_ by myself,” Seunggil grumbles, before yelping in pain as he trips on a crate of fruit. “Ignore that.”

“Like I said, _incompetent,_ ” Phichit says, looking like he is having _way_ too much fun with this. “Point, I’ll help you buy the stuff on this _boring_ list- which is actually kinda useful, Yuuri made one for me just like it- on the condition that you’ll go window shopping with me afterwards with the leftover kunipers. Capiche?”

“Out of all the deals we’ve made so far, this one’s my least favorite.”

“Yay!” Phichit beams, before proceeding to drag Seunggil around the store at breakneck pace, their bags filling up with blocks of nutrient powder, toilet paper, bandages, oxygen packs, self-cleaning underwear, universe maps, and- at the very end, before Seunggil can protest- a box of condoms.

Seunggil sighs.

Because Phichit is secretly a genius at scoring good deals, they do end up having a good deal of money left, and Phichit gleefully drags Seunggil over to the other sectors.

A lot of it is unnecessary, but in the mechanical section he ends up buying a couple sheets of metal and several coils of wires, decidedly less expensive here than the usual capital stuff but looking precisely as functional.

Phichit buys a couple random foods from the stands set up along the aisles, humming to himself and always, always offering Seunggil a bite, not asking him to pay. As much as Seunggil protests, he’s starting to get the suspicion the Phichit is trying to make him have _fun_ or some shit like that.

It also feels uncomfortably like a date, although one made on a deal. When Seunggil finally allows Phichit to shove a striped caramel in his mouth, there’s a terrible thing inside him that whispers, _you’ll miss when he’s gone, won’t you- and maybe you want to go on a date with him for real_. But Seunggil squashes that down. He’s never been one to dwell on the future, although maybe he should’ve when it came to Otabek.

\---

By the time they get out, the sky is dark, navy with pinpricks of stars. Both of them are too tired to take the network back to the actual trav-hab, so they get a room a kilometer or so off for the night.

Seunggil glances at the room, mouth slowing tightening into an unsettled frown. The room’s not low-quality, exactly, although cramped, but- there’s only one bed. It could definitely fit both him and Phichit, but Seunggil’s already made out with him while drunk- he doesn’t want to spoon him in his sleep.

“I can rent another one, if you want,” Phichit says faintly, staring at the bed, like he hadn’t really read the travel habitation logues too closely. Which, knowing Phichit, is probably the case.

“I’ll take the floor,” Seunggil says.

“You’re not taking the floor,” Phichit sighs. “I’m taking the floor. Or we could both sleep on the bed.”

“We’re not sleeping on the bed,” Seunggil snaps. “I made out with you yesterday and then passed out on you. Sharing furniture is absolutely out of the question.”

“You’re a weird guy, Seunggil,” Phichit laughs. “Okay- how about this: we both take the floor.” Seunggil faintly considers this and nods, and then the two of them yank off the covers and spread it out on the floor like a collapsed blanket fort.

The adrenaline from the rotary still hasn’t completely worn off yet, so Seunggil just sits there hugging his knees to his chest. The lights are turned halfway off, and Phichit’s in a criss-crossed position scrolling through his armscreen. “Does it bother you?” Phichit says suddenly, pointing to the light. “I can turn it off, if you want.”

“How are your retinas still intact,” Seunggil grumbles, sprawling out onto the ground. He kind of hates his pride right now- he can tell that he’s going to wake up with a spine full of knots. He ignores the discomfort and closes his eyes.

Seunggil hears the faint _beep_ of an armscreen turning off and then a weight settling down a foot or so away. “I don’t know,” Phichit says, voice muffled. “Yuuri always hated my perfect eyesight.”

“Is Yuuri one of your crewmates?”

“Yeah,” Phichit says, and Seunggil can hear him smiling in the dark. “He’s my best friend.”

“Tell me about your crewmates,” Seunggil says, feeling like a petulant child whining for a bedtime story and hating that he can’t do anything about it. He usually falls asleep listening to radio podcasts, and Phichit’s voice is radio-worthy, all mellow tones and charm like he could hold a conversation through a mouthful of static.

“Is this another deal?”

“No.” Seunggil swallows down his pride. “I can’t fall asleep unless someone’s talking.”

Phichit hums and says, “I don’t need anything in return, you didn’t have to explain.”

Seunggil can’t decipher what that means, and Phichit’s voice slips into a timbre different than his usual tone, talking _to_ someone instead of _with_ someone.

“My crewmates are a riot. Except you know, I already told you, they’re all taken by each other. So I always walk in on them making out. To be fair, though, there’s not much room to hide when you’re all stuck in a fucking stolen starship…”

Seunggil closes his eyes and lets himself drift off to stories about Yuuri, the best friend who’s worse than Seunggil when it comes to alcohol, fluctuating wildly in terms of self-esteem because one rotary he’s stripping on the dance floor and the next he’s shying away from a hello.

He listens to Phichit recount tales about Victor, the man who’s a genius star-charter but is also actually a fucking idiot who can’t cook a pancake to save his life, square or circular or _any unburnt shape_ , and sings in the shower and is desperately fickle but is always heels-over-head for Yuuri.

He listens to Phichit talk about Leo, this mechanic that they picked up in a mad dash across the Fleurs Galaxy, who loves music and is always illegally streaming songs from various sites across the net, and his husband, Guang-Hong, who is adorable but also extraordinarily petty and will wrangle anything out of anyone with a pout and some sweetly-uttered blackmail.

He falls asleep to the thought that he wishes, desperately, that he were part of the story Phichit’s telling and not some sort of side-cameo present for half a page.

\---

Seunggil wakes up early the next morning, pulling himself off the floor.

Phichit’s leaving in a few hours; to quell the feeling threatening to burst out of his chest, he wakes Phichit with a harsher-than-necessary poke to the side. Phichit’s groggy and nearly kicks Seunggil’s face with a flailing shin, and Seunggil doesn’t know whether it’s the occasion or the murderous look on his face that prompts Phichit to get up with minimum complaint.

“I’ll miss you,” Phichit says tearfully, staring at his pancake.

Seunggil rolls his eyes and snatches it out of Phichit’s hand, who makes grabby motions and ends up falling off the mattress from which he was eating. “It’s a _pancake_.”

“It’s the highlight of this entire planet,” Phichit says, devious.

“Kiss the pancake instead, then.”

“ _No_ ,” Phichit immediately protests, throwing both of his arms around Seunggil, who should be shrugging him off but just stays there, stock-still. “That wasn’t the deal. I take it back, Seunggil, you’re my favorite, the _best of this planet_ , the-”

“I’m serious,” Seunggil says, “at least the pancake isn’t drunk and unconscious.”

“It doesn’t have a mouth, either.”

“Are you really that desperate for a kiss?” Seunggil asks.

Phichit mumbles something under his breath that Seunggil can’t quite catch before going over to pull the straps tighter around his baggage, saying, “You coming to the landing dock with me? Or should I just kiss you and leave?”

“No,” Seunggil says, way more vehement than he intended. Phichit’s looking at him strangely, and right now, with the baggage all set and the trav-hab sensor returned, does the fear truly set in. He _could_ just kiss Phichit now and never see him again. It’d be easier.

But he knows that he doesn’t want to.

“Good,” Phichit says easily. “I need someone to prevent me from blowing all of the extra kunipers on overpriced souvenirs- hey, do you think I can get a shirt that says _I came to Almavivo and all I got was a drunk-_ ”

“Keep talking, and you’re not gonna have a torso to cover with that shirt,” Seunggil says, gritting his teeth, and Phichit laughs a little and pulls him up.

“Let’s go.”

The shuttle ride to the landing dock is about two hours worth of time, and Seunggil and Phichit play twenty questions, the dumb camp version to allow people to know each other better. It’s illogical to be playing such a thing when Phichit’s literally going to be gone by noon, but Seunggil can’t say no to learning about Phichit.

Otabek is an enigma, and Phichit is an open book, but the way Seunggil feels about Phichit is infinitely more complex than how he feels about Otabek. Compared to the solas he’d spent getting to know Otabek, it feels like he and Phichit did everything wrong, but it doesn’t feel fake.

The landing dock is hot when they get there, light reflecting off of a hundred square miles of metal. It feels like a space heater, and Seunggil can feel sweat beading along the seams of his tunic and his hairline. It’s to the point where he’s considering sacrificing his self-dignity and bitch with Phichit about melting into a puddle in the middle of the lot.

They find Phichit’s pod, and Phichit yanks the door open and hoists himself inside, motioning for Seunggil to follow suit.

The air inside the pod isn’t as unbearably hot, even if it is a bit stale. “Sorry,” Phichit apologizes, gesturing at the mess. “I just- this isn’t really the best place to say goodbye.”

Seunggil shrugs. “I’m not a romantic.”

“I could’ve figured that out,” Phichit says, interlocking his hands around his knee. “But there’s no way in Prix that you could possibly like the heat. You look like you want to murder the sun or some shit.”

“That’s just how my face _is_ ,” Seunggil grumbles, and Phichit’s laugh is like music.

They just sit in the landing pod for a while, Phichit’s hands flying over the holoscreens while he calculates the coordinates of his usual starship. He’s not someone that’s showy about his intelligence, but it’s clear that he’s aware of what he’s doing. They just sit like this for a few minutes, breathing the same air, Phichit’s hands flying over the keys.

“Thirty minutes until I launch, I-” Phichit starts. To Seunggil’s horror, his eyes are wet.

“ _No,_ ” Seunggil says. “Don’t you dare get sentimental on me. We both knew what this would entail when it started, so just, collect your kiss.”

Something breaks inside of him. The words are harsher than anything he’s said the entire time he’d known Phichit, like a string of individual knives. But he shouldn’t have tried to postpone the goodbye, or anything-

“Okay,” Phichit whispers, the sound jagged.

It lasts two seconds, the chaste press of mouth to mouth, lips chapped and warm and soft. Drops of water splash onto Seunggil’s cheeks, and there are tears streaming down Phichit’s face when he pulls back. He hastily wipes them with his sleeve.

“I’m going to import my contact info,” Phichit tells him firmly, pressing some buttons into his armscreen. Seunggil nods, numb, before waving and getting out of the cockpit.

He walks slowly to the outskirts of the landing dock, watching pods launch themselves into the atmosphere and wondering which one of them is Phichit’s. _I’m stupid_ , he chides himself bitterly, because he shouldn’t have let down his guard. He should have known from the start that Phichit isn’t _forgettable_.

But they’ll see each other again, Seunggil thinks. He’ll make sure of it.

\---

 _Transmission Wave no. 192849, WM Galaxy_ :

[Image sent]  

>> here he is.


End file.
